


Anything For You

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom!Sherlock, First Time, John loves taking orders, Light BDSM, M/M, Sherlock knows everything, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows a lot of things about John, even some things that John himself doesn't know. Like the fact that John loves taking orders from Sherlock. Of course, it would be much easier if John knew that, too. Fortunately, John is about to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the kink meme: Despite his put-upon attitude, John pretty much always does what Sherlock says. I desperately want a fic of John secretly loving it, and Sherlock (or Lestrade, or Mycroft; I'm easy) noticing and giving him what he wants. Maybe the other character starts wording more things as orders, or slowly tests the limits with more mundane/random/specific orders.

It starts with a case, like so many things in their lives do. John is standing off to the side, arms folded, waiting patiently for Sherlock when Anderson comes storming by. His face is flushed, eyes practically sparking in anger, and really he looks like he's about two seconds from punching someone. John doesn't say anything, knows better than to get in the way of someone who has just been pissed off by Sherlock, but Anderson catches sight of him.

And it all goes to hell from there.

"I see you're waiting for him like a good little bitch," Anderson says coldly, stopping.

John looks at him. Raises an eyebrow.

"Don't you ever get tired of it? Being his pet? It's disgusting, you know, the way he orders you around, and you just put up with it."

"Fuck off, Anderson," John says tiredly, looking back to where Sherlock is. It's been a long three days and he can't remember the last time he slept or ate. All he wants is to go home and have a cup of tea and sleep.

"Makes me wonder if you like it," Anderson hisses, whirling on his heel and storming away.

John doesn't see him go. He keeps watching Sherlock, keeps his face in the exact same expression that it was in before. There's no visible indication that something in his stomach has tightened at the accusation.

Anderson isn't the first person to comment on how John always answers when Sherlock calls. If someone were to ask when he last denied Sherlock something, he wouldn't have an answer. The truth is, it just makes sense to give in. Sherlock is like a force, a hurricane that has pulled John in, and if you refuse the man something he becomes impossible to live with. He'll sulk and pout and sometimes ignore you until something more interesting comes along to distract him. It's easier to give in and make him happy. That's all it is, really.

"John!" Sherlock shouts.

John snaps to attention, realizing that he has drifted off into his own world. He crosses the yard and stands beside Lestrade as Sherlock launches into his deductions, sweeping around the bodies, twirling so that his coat flies out behind him. It's all so dramatic and so very Sherlock. He exchanges an amused smile with Lestrade and waits for Sherlock to finish.

"Come on," Sherlock says suddenly, nearly cutting himself off. "Lestrade, text me when you have a new, interesting case." He sails off, leaving John to shrug at Lestrade and jog to catch up with him. His leg flares briefly with pain, as it does when he is overtired, and he winces slightly.

"Stop it," says Sherlock, looking straight ahead.

"Stop what? I'm not a mind-reader, Sherlock; you'll have to give me more than that."

"Stop favouring your leg. There's nothing wrong with it."

John shoots him an annoyed look but straightens, trying to ignore the ache. Sherlock begins telling him more details about the case, things that he wouldn't share with the police, and the pain becomes a distant memory as John listens and absorbs, filled to the brim with fascination by that amazing mind.

They reach Baker Street and John is relieved to collapse on the couch. He thinks to himself that he never wants to move again. Sherlock undresses slowly, sliding his coat off, and pins him with a pale blue-gray stare.

"What did Anderson say to you?"

"What?" John mumbles. He is half asleep.

Sherlock repeats his question.

"Rubbish," John says through a yawn. "Utter rubbish. Isn't that all Anderson ever comes up with?"

"It upset you."

"No, it didn't." He's a little more awake now, but just barely. Why would it make him upset? It’s fact: he needs Sherlock to be happy. He likes making Sherlock happy. Making Sherlock happy makes John happy. He blinks heavily, thinking that there might be something wrong with that thought, but he is given no time to figure the answer out.

Sherlock looms over him, eyes taking in everything. After a moment, he reaches out and slides his hand into John's hair. "I know what he said."

"Then why did you ask?"

"To see if you would tell me."

"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood for your games tonight."

"Tell me what Anderson said, John." It's spoken in a considerably lower voice, and before John can stop himself, it spills out, word for word, what the other man said. Sherlock listens, never taking his eyes off of John's face.

"See?" John says when he's done. "Rubbish. He's trying to make it sound like it's something it's not." Because it's not. It's not.

"Go to bed, John."

John's legs are moving before he consciously registers the command. He wavers, looking hazily at Sherlock, thinking that there is something not quite right. "Sherlock..."

"Shh. Go into your room, get undressed, and go to bed, John. We'll talk in the morning."

Even though he had been thinking about a cup of tea, John goes. He gets undressed, stripping down to his pants, and disregards his pyjamas even though he never sleeps in just his pants. He crawls beneath the covers and puts his head on the pillow, feeling heavy, sated, and oddly content. Just before sleep washes over him completely, he hears a violin begin to play.

\--

Several times during the night he wakes up, caught in the odd world between fully awake and deeply asleep. This happens sometimes when he's gone too long without a proper rest, like his body can't fully believe he finally has the time to sleep. Each time he wakes up he hears the sweet, sibilant sounds of a violin. The music caresses his skin and soothes him with a lover's touch, sending him back into sleep in seconds.

The last and final time he wakes up, he feels refreshed, if somewhat sluggish. He rubs his eyes and sits there for a moment thinking about last night. About what Anderson said and Sherlock's odd reaction, certainly not the reaction he would have expected from his equally odd flatmate. Clearly some wires have gotten crossed, and John thinks he better straighten this out before anyone else gets in on this. It's not a rumour he wants spread around.

He washes up and goes downstairs carefully, not sure what mood Sherlock will be in. He vaguely remembers hearing music last night, which means Sherlock didn't sleep, which means he may be in an even worse mood than before. Sherlock is stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, but he's not asleep. His fingers are steepled together in the traditional "I'm thinking, so piss off" pose he adopts so often. John exhales and starts to go into the kitchen, relieved that he'll be able to put off the awkward conversation for a bit longer.

"John."

The voice stops him in his tracks as surely as a command. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"You have questions. Ask them."

The tone, the words, are all so eerily reminiscent of that first night in the cab that John feels the shockwave all the way down to his core. The last time Sherlock said that to him, it changed his life in ways that he is only just beginning to realize he hasn't fully understood yet. Some small part of him tells him to run, to leg it and never look back. 

"John, look at me."

Automatically, he turns. Sherlock is still lying on the couch but now his eyes are open and pinned on John. Silvery green this morning, without a hint of blue. John's mouth goes dry and every carefully planned word immediately flees his mind. 

"I don't like taking orders," is what comes out.

Sherlock smiles. "No, of course not," he says, and John is just starting to relax when he adds, "You only like taking my orders."

"No, Sherlock, just - no. You're not understanding."

"I think it's you who doesn't understand, John." Sherlock scans him slowly. "Or rather, you do, you just refuse to admit it. Denial is boring. Do move past it."

"Sherlock!" John says. "What Anderson said doesn't mean anything. He's a tosser and he was just trying to wind me up."

"I agree about Anderson, but the fact remains that he was partially correct." Sherlock's mouth twists and for a moment, it looks like admitting that has caused him genuine pain. "You like taking my orders, John. It took me a while to figure that out but eventually I knew. At first I believed it was because of your military background. All soldiers are trained to take orders, even those who eventually rise in the ranks. But I quickly learned it was more than that."

"Stop. That's enough, Sherlock." When Sherlock starts deducting it's like he can see straight into your soul. That's more than John can take today, when he already feels laid bare. He turns and walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Unfortunately, it doesn't dissuade Sherlock, who gracefully hops up and follows.

"When you first met Mycroft, he told you to sit down and you grew angry," he says. "It only grew worse when you believed he was threatening me. I've watched you around my brother and Lestrade. Both men an army man like yourself might be inclined to listen to. But you never defer to either of them. It's only me."

"I don't defer to you!" John slams the kettle down and fills it with water. His hands are shaking but he doesn't think it's because of the tremor. "You're making it sound like I... like I..."

"The day after you met me, you came across London to send a text at my call," Sherlock replies. The words are spoken calmly, coolly, designed to penetrate and seed. "Then you shot a man to save my life."

"That was just... just..." His words taper off and he takes a deep breath, feeling rattled. Suddenly tea doesn’t sound so appetizing. He needs to get out of the flat, go for a walk, get away from Sherlock and his bloody deductions. He turns, intending to push past Sherlock, and jumps when he realizes Sherlock is standing less than a foot away. There's a dangerous smile on Sherlock's face that makes his heart skip a beat or two.

"Just what, John?" Sherlock prompts.

"Just... I..." It's hard to think when Sherlock is so close. He stares up into Sherlock's eyes and in spite of himself a small flicker of self doubt floods through him. Unwillingly, he remembers times when he listened to Sherlock, when he obeyed without thinking, sometimes even when he didn't want to. His own thoughts from last night, when he was half-asleep and probably more honest with himself than usual, come back to him. He needs Sherlock to be happy. He likes making Sherlock happy. Making Sherlock happy makes John happy. His stomach tightens and he feels like he might be sick.

Sherlock must see the panic in his eyes because he sighs and steps aside, a neat little movement like they're dancers. John practically trips in his haste to get by and doesn't even bother grabbing a coat. He flees the flat at a dead run.

\--

John finds himself in the park where he and Sherlock met, though he has no memory of how he got there. He walks the familiar paths, shoulders hunched and staring at the ground, trying very hard not to think about anything at all. Especially that. Except it's not working. The more he tries not to think about it, the more his brain wants to think about it.

Sherlock is wrong. Obviously. John took orders in the army because he had to, not because he wanted to. He can vividly remember chafing against some of the orders he was given, hating them because he knew they were wrong, that they would lead to bad situations. He much preferred it when he was the one in charge. But that's how it was in the army. It was give and take, you order and you follow.

With Sherlock, there's not much of that. He doesn't take well to orders. John can nag at him to do things like eat or sleep and sometimes he’ll give in, but orders? Not so much. It's one of the reasons he and Mycroft don't get along well. Mycroft likes to be in control and Sherlock likes to thwart control. Living with Sherlock requires a certain willingness to be ordered about. But that doesn't mean John likes it. Just because he does what Sherlock wants, when Sherlock wants it, even if it's inconvenient to him, even if it means ruining yet another relationship with yet another girlfriend...

John stops. "Bloody buggering fuck," he mutters. But that doesn't mean he likes it, right? He puts up with it because he has to, not because he wants to. He craves being around Sherlock, needs the dose of adrenaline and danger the man poses.

His leg gives an idle throb and he sinks down onto a bench, resting his head in his hands. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. John never imagined that when he walked into the laboratory that day, the tall, skinny man with the wild curls would become so important to him. Sherlock is everything to him. John claims that he has no idea why people think he and Sherlock are a couple, but in reality he has a pretty good idea. People take one look at him and they see what he has never made an effort to hide: Sherlock is his world.

Sherlock is selfish, arrogant, spoiled, lazy, too smart for his own good, amazing, sexy, stunning, creative... the list goes on and on.

And yes, okay, John notices the "sexy" in that list. Come on, he is only human. The world's most asexual person would still find Sherlock ridiculously hot. A straight man like John had no chance. But that was as far as it was supposed to go. He can handle thinking Sherlock is hot. But this... this is getting dangerously close to territory he never allows himself to think about.

"I do not like taking orders from Sherlock," he mutters to himself, scrubbing his hands through his short blond hair.

Except... it's sort of nice being the only one who gets to touch Sherlock. His flatmate flinches away from everyone else, but willing lets John reach into his pockets or treat his injuries. And he knows it's a privilege to be the only person who gets to share Sherlock's world. And the little half-smile Sherlock often gives him when John does something Sherlock wanted him to do always makes him feel warm inside. It's become second nature to respond to Sherlock, really. Takes more conscious thought to ignore the man's demands than it does to listen.

His cell phone beeps.

John stiffens. Slowly, he takes it out and looks at it.

Come back. – SH

He closes his eyes briefly and slips the phone back into his pocket. He doesn't move for a few minutes. Just keeps staring off into space. The last thing he wants to do is listen to Sherlock, especially now. But it's a quiet buzzing in the back of his mind. What if Sherlock is in trouble? What if he's doing something dangerous? Anxiety begins to build and he drums his hands on his knees, tapping his foot on the ground.

"Fuck." He leaps to his feet and takes off at a quick stride, moving at an easy lope along the path. Once he's sure that Sherlock is fine, he's going to make things perfectly clear. He takes orders from Sherlock because he has to. He might not mind because he knows he needs Sherlock, but that's a far cry from enjoying it. And he might be in lust (not love) with Sherlock, but that means nothing.

He's panting by the time he runs up the stairs to the flat. The room is dark when he opens the door and he squints at the couch. Sherlock is still laying there, fingers still steepled, whole and healthy and unharmed. John grits his teeth and slams the door. He's ready to have a fight. He's not going to give into Sherlock's deductions. He's not - 

John doesn't get the chance to finish that thought. Sherlock jolts up from the couch, leaps across the room, slams him back against the door, and kisses him.

His first instinct is to push Sherlock away. But somehow the order never reaches his hands. The kiss is everything he hasn't yet found in a woman: deep and passionate, yet at the same time, gentle and soft. Sherlock's tongue parts his lips easily and slides into John's mouth, seeking out every crevice, mapping it all for his personal record. John tries to kiss back but it's hard, like being lost inside a hurricane and trying to look in every direction and only getting more muddled because ohmygodhe'skissingSherlock Holmes...

Sherlock pulls back and rests his forehead against John's. His breathing is only slightly heavier compared to John's panting. "I knew you would come back," he says.

John closes his eyes, mortified, knowing that he played right into Sherlock's hands. "Why?" he asks, and his voice breaks ever so slightly. "I don't... why?"

A dangerous smile curves Sherlock's swollen lips. "Because you love it," he breathes, nipping at John's neck. John shudders. "You love the danger. You love not knowing how far I'm going to push you."

Something about the way he says that doesn't seem right. When it hits John, he goes stiff all over. "Have you been performing experiments on me?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock says like it should be obvious. He pulls back just far enough that he can stare into John's eyes. This close, there's nowhere else for John to look, and Sherlock seems to like that. His fingers slide into the hair at the base of John's neck. "Tell me, John, is there anything you wouldn't do for me?"

Whatever John was going to say dies in the wake of that question. Because he knows the answer is no and Sherlock knows the answer is no. John Watson would do anything for Sherlock Holmes, that has been evident from the day that they met. But that's irrelevant. He can't believe Sherlock has been deliberately testing him, seeing how far he could push the commands before John would snap (well, yes he can believe it because that's a completely Sherlock thing to do, but still). He opens his mouth, feeling like he should say something - anything - to get this conversation back on course. 

"Shh," Sherlock whispers. "Don't speak, John. Listen to me. I can tell you were upset by the way you ran out of here. I knew that you didn't know, but I wasn't expecting you to react so harshly." Something faintly troubles flashes across his face. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying orders, John. In fact, I think I could make it worth your while to listen to me. I've never steered you wrong, have I?"

John shoots him an incredulous look and is fully ready to list every instance where Sherlock has done just that. Sherlock must sense this because he lunges forward, attaching his lips to John's neck, and John moans, forgetting about everything except for the feel of that hot mouth stroking and biting his skin. 

"Sh-Sherlock," he choked out, closing his eyes. He's only just noticed that his wrists have been caught in Sherlock's hands, preventing him from doing anything. "Sherlock... I don't..."

"Yes, you do. I know you do." Sherlock's voice is full of quiet confidence, but he doesn't look arrogant or smug, for once. He really looks like he wants John to just give in. "John, please. I've known about this for months and I haven't taken advantage of it. Not really. I knew you would do what I ordered you to..." He groans softly. "But, although I tested the boundaries, I did nothing to humiliate you or put you in danger. I kept it between the two of us. Anderson was a lucky guess, nothing more."

"You want me to give in," John says, his head spinning with lust. God but he wants Sherlock right now, wants him in any way that Sherlock will take him. He can't remember a time in his life when he was ever this turned on. But still, there is a small part of him that is shying away from this, that says his life will be irreversibly changed if he gives in, because he has given so much of himself to Sherlock already that if he gives in on this there will be nothing left.

"I want you to let go," Sherlock whispers, voice all dark, heady smoke. He kisses John again, making his hunger known in the way he presses his hips forward, muffling John's cry. "Let go, John. I've been here to catch you from the beginning."

His hands are shaking, but in a good way. John has never been this terrified in his life, but that doesn't stop him from saying yes.

Surprisingly, Sherlock steps back, releasing his wrists. "Go take a shower," he says. "I'll make tea."

"You're going to make tea? After that?" John is bewildered. He wants more. He doesn't want tea, damn it!

"Yes. I want us both to be calm for this." Sherlock's eyes are glittering with promise. "Because when I take you, John, when I make you come undone beneath me until you can't scream anything but my name, I want you to remember every moment of it, and I want you to know that you chose this. You chose me."

There is no way to breathe after that. John nods dumbly and stumbles off to the bathroom, which is free of any odd experiments. He locks the door and leans against it for several minutes, too shell-shocked to even thinking about taking a shower. What the hell was that?

Eventually, and it takes a while, he pries himself off of the door and gets into the shower. Not because Sherlock told him to, but because he really does feel like he needs one after... that. He ignores his erection and soaps himself up quickly, doing his best not to think about the look in Sherlock's eyes when he said that he wanted to make John come undone. It sends signals straight to his cock and does nothing in helping him to ignore it. Somehow, the thought of taking himself in hand is instantly dismissed.

He finishes the shower and climbs out, realizing instantly that there is a problem: he neglected to bring fresh clothing in with him. Of course, he could do what he always does, which is wrap a towel around his waist and go up to his room regardless. But with the way Sherlock was acting, he's not sure he wants to take that chance. Sherlock takes enough liberties without being presented with extra opportunity. Finally, he just puts on the clothes he was wearing before and takes a couple of deep breaths before he goes back out into the living room.

Surprisingly, there is a cup of tea waiting for him on the edge of his chair. Sherlock is leaning against the window and plucking at the strings of his violin. John glances at him warily before edging his way over to his seat and sitting down. The tea is made perfectly, exactly the way he likes it, and he can feel the tension easing out of his shoulders. He looks up at Sherlock, studying the man's back, and starts to think.

There have been lots of times when John has gone above and beyond for Sherlock. More than one girlfriend has left him after uttering the now infamous phrase that seems to haunt his every relationship: don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes. Because that's the problem, isn't it? John didn't date anyone during the year he thought Sherlock was dead. Losing Sherlock was like losing a part of himself. Before that, he'd always thought that someday he'd find someone who he cared about more than Sherlock, and that would be the person he'd marry. But after Sherlock "died", he realized that he wouldn't be able to handle loving anyone more than Sherlock. It would be too much, too impossible.

So what does that mean now? He finds Sherlock attractive. Obviously. And Sherlock seems to think John enjoys listening to Sherlock's orders. John shifts uncomfortably, still not liking the idea, and really not liking that Sherlock has been testing the boundaries without his knowledge. He casts his memory back, trying to recall if Sherlock has made any outlandish orders in the past few months, but he's drawing a blank. Is it possible that Sherlock was being honest and that he hasn't taken it too far? Or, more likely, John just wasn't paying close enough attention. He inwardly curses himself for not catching on to what Sherlock was doing sooner.

Hands sliding over his knees makes him come back to the flat with a start. He jumps and it's a good thing his cup is empty because otherwise he'd need another shower. Sherlock is kneeling in front of him, eyes assessing John steadily. He swallows hard and stares back, caught, knowing he should look away but unable to. 

"John," Sherlock purrs.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he says, and is proud that he managed to speak without stuttering. His stomach curls as Sherlock's hands slide higher, up his thighs. 

"You're thinking too much."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"I could smell the smoke burning." Sherlock smirks. "You're trying to tell if I told you the truth about whether or not I ever pushed too far when it came to ordering you around."

Not for the first time, John hates the fact that Sherlock can read every thought that passes through his mind. "No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. But you haven't and it upsets you, the thought that I was doing it and you didn't realize. It makes you wonder how long I would have kept it up before you caught on." Long, deft fingers slide between his thighs, pressing gently. John responds to the unspoken command, unconsciously allowing his thighs to part. He's too busy scowling at Sherlock.

"You might have spoken to me about it before," he says. "Before I had a bloody panic attack over it."

"You weren't ready," Sherlock says. "Even though I didn't think you would panic like that, I knew you would respond poorly to the situation. As far as I could tell, you hadn't even admitted to yourself that you were sexually attracted to me. I was trying to figure out how best to approach the situation."

There's something oddly... sweet about that. 

"There's nothing wrong with you, John. I know you're confused but you don't have to be." Those fingers are tugging at his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping. John notices and his hand flies down, pinning Sherlock's hand in place. His blue eyes are huge. Sherlock sits back on his heels. "Shh, John. Relax. If you give yourself to me, I promise you that it will be everything you have ever dreamed about." The odd, half-cast smirk indicates that he has an excellent idea of the kind of dreams John has had.

John swallows. His heart is pounding. This is it. He can give in and let Sherlock do what he wants, possibly even accept that he may actually like it, or he can get up and walk away, possibly damaging their friendship (relationship?) beyond repair. He tries to imagine a future without Sherlock in it and can't. He meant it when he said that Sherlock was everything to him. Maybe there really isn't anything he wouldn't do for Sherlock. Slowly, he takes his hand away.

"Please," he says breathlessly, and there are so many things wound up in that single word that he doesn't think he could ever properly express them all.

Sherlock smiles and his fingers wander into John's pants, sliding around his half-erect cock. John gasps at the feeling and stares at Sherlock, stunned. Those fingers seem to know exactly where to touch and how to stroke, alternating between long and short, a pinch here and there, a twist at the very tip. A strangled sound emerges from John's throat and he hears himself panting.

"Relax," Sherlock orders, dropping his voice. It comes out as a rumble that goes straight to John's fully erect cock. "Put your hands at your sides and keep them there. And spread your legs more."

John does, fisting his hands into his shirt and spreading his legs as wide as he can, until the chair stops him. Sherlock shuffles closer until John is pinned to the chair and couldn't escape even if he wanted to. Sherlock's eyes remain on his face, capturing John's gaze, refusing to let him look away. He knows that every thought passing through his mind, every feeling, is being read by the detective. Sherlock is absorbing it all even while his hand continues to work John like he's a violin, playing him to Sherlock's tune of choice.

"Sherlock," he says, chest heaving. This scrutiny is unbearable. His blood feels like it's boiling and he squirms, head tipping back, but still keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock's. "Sherlock, oh god... Sherlock..."

"I know, John, I know," Sherlock murmurs. He puts his other hand on John's thigh and slides it up, stroking the skin. It's soothing, strangely so, and John lets out a hoarse whimper. His hips are moving, thrusting into Sherlock's talented hand. 

He never knew it could be like this. Sex with women was always fun, but this... this is like a fire, consuming him steadily, burning him from the inside out. Sherlock's eyes bore into him until he can't take it and has to close his own.

"Look at me, John."

"S-Sher... fuck... Sherlock..." John forces his eyes open. He can feel himself growing close. The excitement from earlier has returned and is overwhelming him, mind going hazy with pleasure, thought banished. Sherlock leans forward, and his tall stature combined with John's slumped position puts them at just the right height. Their faces are level.

"Come for me, John," Sherlock orders, and then he leans forward and kisses John.

John cries out into Sherlock's mouth as he comes, his body jerking helplessly, back arching as he spills himself into Sherlock's hand. He collapses against the chair, doing his best to keep up with Sherlock's fervent kisses. He's trembling all over by the time Sherlock finally allows him to pull away. The detective eases his hand out of John's trousers and wipes it off before cupping John's cheek, bring their eyes together again.

"You did well," he says with a pleased smile. "So good, my John."

And at that moment, John realizes that he is completely, irreversibly, 100% fucking in love with Sherlock Bloody Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's phone goes off while John is still drifting in a comfortable, easy haze of sexual satisfaction. He listens distantly as Sherlock locates the phones and begins typing furiously. A case, he realizes, judging by the growing love of excitement in those mercurial eyes. Fuck, he can still see them even when he closes his own eyes, can still see Sherlock's mouth forming the command that has taken him to higher levels of pleasure than he thought possible.

"John?"

He looks up with a start. Sherlock is standing in front of him, coat and scarf on. It's amazing how put-together he looks, even though he was making John come undone minutes ago. He shifts and straightens up, suddenly realizing that his trousers are still hanging open and his cock is on display. His cheeks flush and he quickly tucks himself away and zips his trousers up. Sherlock's lips curve in a half-smile, half-smirk that makes John's heart skip a beat.

"There's a case," he says. "Are you coming?"

"Sorry, I think I already did," John quips with a smirk. He knows that later there will be plenty of time for doubts and shame, but right now his muscles are liquid with pleasure and his mind is cloudy in a way it hasn't been for years. He levers himself out of the chair and turns to grab his jacket. "Let's go."

Sherlock leads the way, as he always does, pounding down the steps and out the door. By the time John joins him, he has already summoned a cab. They climb in and Sherlock tells the cabbie the right address. John settles back in his seat, knowing it will be a long trip. He's half-tempted to try to go to sleep, but he's always had difficulty sleeping in a moving vehicule. And even when he can, it causes nightmares he'd rather not think about.

There's silence between them, and even though it's not awkward, John decides to break it. "When did you know?"

For once, Sherlock doesn't try to pretend like he doesn't know what John is talking about. "I suspected from the start," he says, looking out the window. "The evidence only built the more time we spent together. But I knew for certain after I returned."

John's stomach tightens. He doesn't like to think about that year. The Year Without Sherlock. The worst year of his life. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Yes, here comes the self-doubt, tempered with a healthy dose of shame, but still, he can't deny that he enjoyed what Sherlock did. "Is this what you want, then?"

Sherlock seems to be surprised by the question. "I know it's what you want, even if you're not fully prepared to accept that."

"That's not what I asked."

"You must think highly of me indeed if you believe I'd be so selfless." Sherlock is clearly amused. 

"Sherlock."

"It intrigues me." There is a note of honesty that wasn't there before. "You intrigue me, John. I've spent many hours wondering what it would be like to see you come undone, but the reality..." His eyes burn silver shaded in green and he licks his lips slowly. John stares, entranced, cock twitching. "I want to consume every part of you, John. I want to know you inside out, know what makes your knees weak, know what drives you wild. I want you to be mine in every sense of the word. That's what I want."

John can't breathe. He keeps staring until Sherlock looks away, and then, like he has permission, he looks away too, out the window, feeling distinctly light-headed. Possibly because all of the blood in his body has rushed to his cock all at once. He doesn't know what to do with this information. It's all so new and terrifying.

Sherlock sighs beside him and reaches out, hooking an arm around John's shoulders, hauling him across the seat until he is beside Sherlock, thighs and ribs pressed together, his shoulder tucked into Sherlock's armpit. It's a surprisingly comfortable position to be in, as his head comes to rest on Sherlock's stomach. His nose is tilted at just the right angle to be able to inhale Sherlock's comforting scent.

"Go to sleep, John," Sherlock whispers. 

John closes his eyes. Within seconds, he's asleep.

\--

The case is not going well. John leans against the alley wall, safely out of Sherlock's zone of scorn. There's pathetically little evidence for them to go on and it's clearly driving the consulting detective mad. John rubs the back of his neck and sighs, suspecting that the nap - surprisingly nightmare free - that he had on the way over may be the last sleep he sees for a few days. At this rate, Sherlock will be up all night tormenting sounds from his violin that no man-made instrument should ever be able to make.

"This makes no sense!" Sherlock hisses, spinning a slow circle. His eyes make a careful sweep of the dim alley, categorizing every bit of evidence - or lack thereof. "Did your people touch anything, Lestrade?"

"No," Lestrade says. At any other time it would have been satisfying to see Sherlock confused. Now, when there is a murderer on the loose and a child is the victim, it's disheartening. He tries not to look at the small body curled up on the ground in such a lonely, desolate place. "There wasn't much for them to process as it was, and I made sure they left everything for you."

Sherlock growls low in his throat and kneels, whipping out his magnifying glass. He begins working his way over the child's body again. Suddenly, he pauses, and a peculiar look passes over his face. It's gone in a split second, and likely Lestrade and the others haven't noticed, but John does. He's so attuned to Sherlock's moods by now that he knows, instantly, that Sherlock has found a lead.

"Talk to the parents," Sherlock says at last, standing up. 

Lestrade makes a noise of frustration. "We have talked to the parents. The kid ran away after a fight with her older sister."

"One of them is lying. Find out what they're hiding and you'll find out what happened." Sherlock walks over to John, indicating that they're ready to leave. He places a hand on the small of John's back as they walk out, moving so close that no one would be able to see, and John can't deny the way his stomach flips. 

"And where are we going?" he asks, knowing that Sherlock has something up his sleeve.

The detective smirks. "We're going to speak to her uncle."

"Her uncle?"

"Yes, John." One hand, raised for a taxi, causes one to appear almost instantly. "The child was young and had her hair tied neatly. Her clothing matched. All signs point to a child who is well cared for. Likely one who knows not to run around by herself. She would have gone to someone she felt she could trust, someone who takes her side. Someone she wouldn't have fought very hard against during an attack. An uncle, then, or possibly a family friend, but a relation is more likely."

John feels sick. "Oh god."

"Yes." Sherlock nods, looking out the window. 

The trip is short. The confrontation is shorter. It only takes about two words before the uncle panics and bolts. John darts after him while Sherlock takes off around the house. Moments later, they burst outside and the man starts running towards the woods that border the back of his home. If he gets inside, it will be nearly impossible to catch him, John knows. He puts on a burst of speed, only vaguely aware of Sherlock somewhere behind him. 

"Stop!" he shouts, lungs burning. 

"I never did nothing!" the uncle screams, veering off towards a closer patch of woods. Just before he gets there, he stops. Swivels. John has just time enough to catch sight of a glint of silver in his hand before burning pain slices across his stomach. His mind registers that he was shot even as he leaps forward and takes the uncle down.

\--

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. John has a memory of Sherlock leaning over him yelling his name and ordering him not to die. He thinks he laughs but maybe not because that makes the pain worse. It swallows him whole and everything after that is just blank darkness, sometimes broken up by voices speaking in low murmurs and, once or twice, Sherlock yelling. That's not an uncommon occurence and John feels a spark of sympathy for whoever is on the other side of that temper.

He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed all by himself. It only takes a second to discern he's in a hospital room. Great, and he'd been doing so well at keeping himself out of them. This is his first visit in nearly two years. He can't say he's missed it. 

The door swings open and a nurse hurries in as he is trying to lever himself up. "Oh good," she says. "You're awake. The doctor will be in to see you soon and if you're well you'll be able to go home."

John blinks at her. "Sorry, have we spoken before?"

"No. But I've just been talking to your husband."

"My hus..." John's voice trails off and his hand comes up to cover his face. "Let me guess," he says into the comforting darkness. "Tall man with pale eyes, made you want to punch him except for the fact that you're the one who would have to care for him afterwards?"

The nurse looks shifty. "No, of course not. I mean yes, that's him, but I didn't want to punch him."

"Then you're either a saint or you were holding something sharp."

"My pen," she says and they both grin.

"Right, then. I'll just..." He pushes the covers back and goes to stand up. The world tilts and he staggers. Suddenly, strong arms grip his chest, keeping him in place. Even before his vision clears he knows who it is, because who else would think to grab at his chest instead of his shoulders?

"You should sit down, sir," the nurse says.

"No, really, I'm - "

"Sit down, John," Sherlock snaps.

His legs bend automatically and there's a disorienting moment when he thinks he might actually end up on the floor. But Sherlock holds on and guides him down onto the bed, until he can feel the scratchy sheets underneath his thighs. He exhales slowly, trying to breathe through the dizziness, and has to fight the urge to lean forward and press his face into Sherlock's stomach until the world has stabilized.

"Mr Watson? How are you - "

"It's Dr. Watson."

"feeling today, Dr. Watson?" The new voice has the edgy undercurrent of someone who has been dealing with Sherlock for too long. 

"I'm fine," John says wearily, lifting his head. It takes a lot of effort. He's pretty sure the gunshot wound must have been mild if they're thinking about letting him go already, but that doesn't change the fact that he's exhausted. 

"I'll be the judge of that." The doctor has better sense than to ask the man trying to set him on fire through glare alone to leave the room. Instead, he ignores Sherlock and checks the wound, then John's blood pressure and heartrate. "Your wound is coming along nicely. You've had ten stitches and you'll be quite tender while it's healing. I suggest you stay in bed for the rest of today and tomorrow at least." He gives John a shrewd look. "And try to take it easy for a while. Since you're a doctor I feel comfortable in discharging you, but don't over do it. You'll have pain medication and antibiotics. I assume you're familiar with the routine?"

"Very." The thought of getting out of the hospital is immensely appealing even though he just woke up. He watches the doctor leave to go get the discharge papers ready and sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. Christ but he just wants to sleep. "Sherlock, what have I told you about antagonizing the nurses?"

"It was their own fault," says Sherlock. "All they had to do was get out of my way."

"They were doing their jobs!" 

"Their job includes doing what is best for you, and that's having me around."

John sighs. Can't argue that one. "Whatever. Just get out so I can get dressed."  
Sherlock arches an eyebrow and just looks at him. The heat pouring from those eyes is enough to make the hair on the back of John's neck stand up. A shiver goes through him and if he weren't ready to collapse he's pretty sure his cock would've gone from zero to hard in about a second. As it is, there's a definite twitch of interest. Sherlock smirks.

"I'll help you," is all he says.

"I'm not in the mood," John says weakly. Because, really, he could be dying and all it would take is a look from Sherlock get him in the mood.

"I know. You're not well enough for that." The impled "yet" that is tacked onto the end of that sentence makes John swallow hard. 

In the end, Sherlock gets his way. He's surprisingly patient as he steadies John so that John can pull his trousers on, and then helps him slide a jumper on. By the end of it, John is ready to fall back asleep. That's the thing he hates the most about being wounded. Every bloody thing takes so much effort. Even things that should be simple, like signing your name to a page, is a drain. His hand is shaking by the time he's done.

"We'll get these together and then you can go," the nurse says, retreating out the door.

John sits down on the bed. He's still very interested in leaving but he's not sure he'll make it home without a rest. "I'm just going to lay down for a minute," he says.

Sherlock is standing beside the bed and he nods silently. John puts his head down the on the pillow, and he's pretty sure he feels long fingers tangle into his hair just before sleep claims him.

\--

By the time the nurse comes back in, John is asleep. Sherlock stands beside the bed, arms folded, silently warning anyone who dares to get too close. The nurse stops short in the door when she spots John and her face softens. All trace of kindness, however, vanishes when she looks up at Sherlock.

"He looks very tired," she says.

"He'll rest better at home."

She looks annoyed. "He seems to be resting perfectly well where he is."

Sherlock resists the urge to glare at her, then remembers that John is sleeping and does anyway. "I hope those are his release forms, because we're leaving," he says, eyes flicking down to the papers she's holding. Of course, he already knows that it's the release papers. It's evident from the way she's holding them like she'd love to tear them into shreds.

The nurse takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I'll get a wheelchair, then."

"No need." Sherlock has already calculated the best way to carry John without causing aggravation to his wound. He slides his arms under John's body and lifts, using his chest and stomach to catch the majority of John's weight. John murmurs faintly and instinctively curls into him, nuzzling his head against the coat.

"Sherlock..."

A rare smile breaks out across Sherlock's face, but it disappears the second he remember he's being watched. The nurse is staring at him with open surprise on her face, and hwen he stalks over to the door she backs out of the way wordlessly, holding out John's prescriptions. When Sherlock arches an eyebrow, she swalows and gently sets them down on John's stomach.

"Take care of him," she says.

He ducks his head. "I will."

There's a line of taxis waiting outside the hospital. Sherlock picks the least threatening and carefully puts John inside before climbing in as well. He pulls John against his side, letting the smaller man curl up practically in his lap. The cabbie gives them a curious look in the mirror but seems to realize that Sherlock is not interested in talking. They drive in silence and it gives Sherlock time to think.

Before he knows it they're at Baker Street. He pays the cabbie and gets out, picking John up as carefully as possible. John makes a weak sound of pain and wriggles as Sherlock straightens. His eyes flutter open and he looks around in vague confusion as Sherlock walks up to the door. Mrs Hudson has been waiting for them and she opens it, concern written over her face.

"Oh John, are you alright, dear?" she says, petting his head.

John blinks at her and doesn't respond.

She clucks her tongue and goes up the stairs first to open the door. "Do you need anything, Sherlock?" she asks.

"No, Mrs Hudson, thank you." Sherlock sets John down on the sofa gently. As the door closes behind them, John grabs Sherlock's arm.

"Where are we?" he mumbles.

"We're at Baker Street."

"Oh. Were you nice to the nurse?"

Sherlock's mouth quirks. "I'm always nice." It's obvious he's not getting away, so he slides his coat off, allowing John to continue clutching the arm, and spreads it out over him. Within seconds, John has buried his nose in the material and fallen back asleep.

Sherlock sits down in his chair, steeples his fingers together, and watches, taking the opportunity to fill himself up with John, to memorize, all over again, the way John breathes and murmurs and sleeps. He wants to forget about the way John fell to the ground, how the blood dribbled between his fingers, how his head fell back limply as he gave way to unconsciousness. The memories torment him. He wants to forget.

\--

The sound of low voices murmuring in anger wake John. His eyes feel gummy and sore as he forces them to open. The flat is cool but his body is warm, seeing as how Sherlock's coat is tucked up around his shoulders. He plucks at the fabric bemusedly, wondering how he got back to Baker Street, and looks up as Sherlock comes striding out of the kitchen.

"Now you've woken John," he says accusingly.

"I wouldn't have if you'd stop being so bloody stubborn." Lestrade follows him, looking weirdly resigned and annoyed. When he sees that John is, indeed, awake, he crosses the room and peers down at him. "Bloody hell, mate, you look like shit."

"Thanks. I feel it, too." John lifts a hand to his head. There's no discernible wounds but the skin feels tender. Sherlock goes back into the kitchen and he takes his chance. "What's wrong?"

Lestrade visibly hesitates. "Nothing."

"Greg."

He sighs. "You scared us, John, but I think you scared Sherlock most of all."

"It wasn't even that bad," John protests. If it had been, there's no way they would've let him out of the hospital so quickly, doctor or not.

"No, but if it's all the same to you I'd rather not arrive at a crime scene and see you on the ground bleeding out ever again." Lestrade clasp a gentle hand on his shoulder. He drops his voice and adds, "Sherlock wasn't answering my texts so I came to see him in person. I had a case involving a man who was discovered dead in the middle of bloody no where, completely naked, with nothing and no one around him. No visible cause of death."

John feels resigned. "How long will you be gone for then?"

"He turned down the case, John."

For a moment, John wonders if he's still asleep. Or possibly hallucinating. "Sorry, did you just say Sherlock turned down an interesting case? Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade's mouth is twitching. "Yes, I did. And after seeing you I'm not going to push it, but if he thinks of anything make sure he texts me instead of keeping it to himself." He squeezes John's shoulder and turns towards the door. "Good luck."

That sounds... distinctly ominous. John is still staring blankly at the door when Sherlock comes out of the kitchen carrying a cup of tea and two pills. He pushes both into John's hands. John takes them gratefully. Normally he prefers to tough the pain out when he can, but he can't take both the pain and the fact that Sherlock is being strange all at once. He sips at the tea (which is, again, prepared perfectly) and thinks about how to approach this.

"Thanks for bringing me back to the flat," he says finally. "It must have been difficult."

"It was fine," Sherlock says shortly. 

Fine. It's become their code word for "it's anything but". John swallows hard. "How long was I out for?"

"Just now or when you were shot?"

There is a very slight quiver on the last word that would be indiscernible to anyone who doesn't know Sherlock Holmes. John sighs and sets his cup aside. This is painfully new territory but he can't stand seeing Sherlock pace around the room like a caged animal, like he's trying to run away from something. 

"Come here, Sherlock," he says.

"You're wounded."

"You won't hurt me."

Sherlock glances at him warily and then, finally, crosses the room and sits down beside John. He moves almost gingerly, natural grace forgotten, and leaves a decent space between them. It's not what John wants but it is what he's expecting so he bears it with good humor. He reaches over and takes Sherlock's hand.

"I'm sorry I worried you," he says.

"What makes you think I was worried?"

"Well, the fact that you turned down Lestrade's case is a start."

"That case was boring."

"Really."

"Boring."

John laughs. He can't help it. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock pouts and twists away, though he doesn't pull his hand back and John begins idly tracing random designs across his palm, full of affection for the childish man beside him. How could he ever put so much faith in these hands? And yet, how can he not?

"Lie down," he says impulsively. Sherlock is tired, he can tell. Probably hasn't slept in days. There's a tell-tale line in the middle of his forehead that gives him away. A good nap will do them both the world of good.

It takes some manoeuvering but finally Sherlock's head is in John's lap, resting on his thighs. His face is inches away from the bandages, hidden beneath John's jumper. Sherlock looks straight at the spot for a long time before he reaches out and touches it, tracing the lines with his fingers. 

"Heal," he orders in a whisper.

John remembers that voice ordering him to live and swallows a laugh. Or maybe a cry. "I don't think that's how it works, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffs. "Your body would be so boring."

An overwhelming rush of affection floods through him and he has to bite his lip hard. It's a good thing Sherlock isn't looking at him because he's certain that his feelings are written all over his face. "Sorry to disappoint you," he says when he can speak without betraying himself. "You can take the case for Lestrade, Sherlock. I'll be fine after a few days of rest."

"Boring," Sherlock repeats. But after a moment, his hand strays down to his pocket and snags his cell phone. John falls asleep to the sound of quick fingers hitting the keys.


	3. Chapter 3

It chafes at John that he can't be there when Sherlock does eventually leave for the case. He wants to be out there with him, even if all he can do is stand there and admire what Sherlock can do. Sometimes that's all they need. He makes himself another cup of tea and stares blankly down at the milky liquid. There's so much tea in his system that he feels ready to float away, but he doesn't know what else to do with himself. 

Even though he told himself he wouldn't, he finally reaches for his phone and pulls it out. He hesitates for a moment. What if Sherlock gets annoyed by the text? John doesn't want to come across as clingy. It's bad enough this bloody wound is keeping him tied here while Sherlock is doing god knows what. A text at the wrong time could get his flatmate (lover? partner? boyfriend?) killed. The thought makes him shudder and he's just about to put his phone away when it vibrates.

You're thinking too hard. - SH

John stares. There are times, he knows, when he will never ever understand Sherlock. "Amazing," he mutters with a shake of his head.

Amazing. How did you know? - JW

I've been good exactly 4.5 hours. Just enough time for your boredom to become unbearable. - SH

Is it a good thing that Sherlock knows him so well? John honestly can't decide. He plays with the buttons, typing out messages and then erasing them. Nothing feels quite right. He should be there with Sherlock, not sitting here in the flat. Gritting his teeth, he rubs at his side, relishing the flare of pain that shoots up his spine when he presses a touch too hard. His phone vibrated again.

You should be sleeping. - SH

John smiles wryly.

You're a fine one to talk about sleep. You haven't slept a wink since that nap you had on the couch. - JW

I bet I can help you fall asleep. - SH

His mouth goes dry and he leans back against the couch, suddenly apprehensive. It's an innocent sounding statement but coming from Sherlock, it never is. He's almost afraid to find out what might be coming next, yet perverse curiosity keeps him frozen in place. Finally, when nothing else is coming through, he types back.

What do you have in mind? - JW

I want you to touch yourself. - SH

Sherlock! - JW

You're alone, John. There's no one around. No need to be shy. Pull your shirt open and run your fingers across your stomach. Gently. - SH

John looks doubtfully at the screen. This is crazy. But in spite of his reservations he does as Sherlock says, pulling his shirt open and slowly running his fingers across his stomach, keeping the touch feather-light. His skin is sensitive and he shivers. 

Explore your body, John. I want to know what you like. Take off your clothes slowly. - SH

It's difficult to get his shirt off without it hurting so he leaves that on. But his trousers go, followed by his socks, leaving him in just his pants. He's half hard already. John leaves his pants on for the time being and continues to follow Sherlock's instructions as best he can. It surprises him, the places that go straight to his cock. Behind his knees. A particularly sensitive spot on the back of his neck. His left hip. Oh god, that makes him moan out loud before he can stop it.

Slowly, John. You're not allowed to come yet. – SH

But no more messages come after that. 

It's massively frustrating. So little happened, and yet John feels like he's been brought to the brink and left waiting. He doesn't dare text Sherlock back. If Sherlock stopped it was for a reason, and he dreads being the reason that Sherlock gets in trouble. So he puts his phone on the table and lays down on the sofa with only his pants on for cover. He continues to lazily trail his hands over his body.

Surprisingly, it's intensely erotic. He's never really had the time or the inclination to learn what he likes. When he was younger, it was all about getting off as fast as possible. The army was more of the same: never knew when they'd be called into action. He's a good lover, and he can be slow, but he tends to focus more on other people than himself. His own pleasure has always been secondary to him. Even when he's masturbating, he's always been fast and efficient.

This... this is different. It's one thing to know that the body has thousands of different, sensitive nerve endings and another thing to know. Before long, he has himself completely wound up. His cock is fully hard, kept in check only by his pants, and he's struggling with the urge to stroke himself to completion. But he keeps thinking about Sherlock's last text. He was told he wasn't allowed to come yet.

Really, it would be easy to disregard that. Sherlock is busy and how would he know? Yet something in John rebels against it even as he floats his fingers over that spot on his left hip. He thrusts uselessly against the air, a moan locking in his throat. God. He's going to drive himself crazy and be left wanting, all because he doesn't want to get himself off. Christ knows how long it will take Sherlock to realize he hasn't responded.

He takes a deep, shuddery breath and stuffs his hands underneath his back, sitting on them in an attempt to avoid giving in. His excitement doesn't really go away, but falls into a low simmer, ready and waiting to be fulfilled. He closes his eyes.

At some point he falls asleep. He doesn't know when. Wouldn't even know he'd fallen asleep were it not for the fact that he wakes up with Sherlock on top of him, gloved hands carressing his nipples into hardness. He's arching into the touch with a low, whimpering cry almost before he's fully awake. 

"S-Sherlock," he chokes out.

"John." There's a mad light burning in Sherlock's eyes. "Do you know how impossible it was to concentrate when I knew you were here? Knew you were waiting for me? I could picture you so clearly." His hand trails lower, sliding into John's pants, curling around his half-erect cock. "And yet for once my mind has failed me. The reality of how you look is... fuck." 

"I didn't... I was waiting..." John gasps, thrusting helplessly. The contrast between Sherlock's cool gloves and his heated skin is fucking amazing. "I waited."

"I know you did. You were so good." An approving smile spreads across his face. "I think you deserve a reward."

A thrill runs up John's spine at those words and he takes in a deep breath. This. This is what he's been waiting for. This is what he's wanted, all those days when he was walking around London at a complete loss, not knowing what he was living for. He's wanted - needed - to put his life, his body, into the hands of this madman. 

"Sherlock..." he says breathlessly. For the first time, he realizes he's okay with this, whatever it is. "Sherlock..."

"Shh, John," Sherlock whispers. "Let me."

John Watson happily complies.

**Epilogue**

It's another few weeks before anything else happens, which surprises John. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but things don't seem to change. Sherlock continues to issue orders and John, for the most part, follows them. It gets easier every day to put himself into Sherlock's hands, to know that even if it ended up in his death, a single moment makes it well worth it. The only thing that bothers him is that Sherlock hasn't touched him since That Night.

Kisses? Sure. Cuddling? Surprisingly, yes. Sherlock seems to like to touch John at every available opportunity, yet there is never anything overtly sexual about it. It's like, now that Sherlock finally has someone he knows he can touch whenever he likes, he's making up for years of deprivation all at once. And it's not like John minds, except that he can't stop thinking about That Night and how Sherlock made him feel. Forget the war, all of his dreams have become occupied by a pair of glittering silver green eyes, long fingers and the world's most fuckable mouth. 

Which is fine. It's all fine.

Actually, it's not fine. Logically John knows it's not possible to die of sexual frustration but at the moment he's starting to think he might be the first ever case.

He stands at a crime scene, the first one since his wound finished healing, watching Sherlock examine the bodies. His lips are forming deductions at lightning speed, things John should probably be listening to, but his mind is preoccupied by remembering what it felt like to be taken into that beautiful mouth. 

Christ. It's a good thing Sherlock thrust a coat on him as they left the flat or everyone would know that the last thing on his mind is the grisly murder.

Sherlock looks at him. 

John flushes and glances away. As soon as he does, he knows it's a mistake. He might've had a chance at hiding it if he'd met Sherlock's eyes squarely, but now the detective will know exactly what he's thinking.

Well, that's not a surprise, at least.

"Alright?" Lestrade asks in an undertone. Sherlock has moved on from deductions and is now insulting Anderson. "You're not in pain, are you?"

"No, no, I'm fine," says John. It's the truth. Unlike his shoulder, the wound in his side has almost completely healed. He doesn't even need to bandage it anymore, and it barely hurts unless he's bending down or climbing the stairs. 

"Good." He looks relieved. "I was a bit concerned that you hadn't shown up with Sherlock before now. Though it might've been more serious than we realized."

"Sherlock wouldn't let me come," John says without thinking.

There's a pause and one of Lestrade's eyebrows arch. He looks at Sherlock thoughtfully while John dies a slow death of embarrassment. Then he says, "You've been good for him, John."

"Sorry?" 

"I mean it. You're the first person Sherlock has ever cared about to the point where he'd keep both of you from a crime scene if it meant your health." He claps a friendly hand on John's shoulder. "At this rate, he might become a good man yet."

"Don't hold your breath," John says wryly and they both chuckle. Sherlock looks up at the sound and then stalks over to them.

"While you're here laughing, your suspect is getting away," he says, glaring at Lestrade. "He'll be down at the station, taking the 10:00 to Birmingham."

Lestrade checks the time on his mobile and swears. In a matter of minutes, the crime scene has cleared from all but the technicians who begin cataloguing evidence, including Anderson, who is sending Sherlock dark looks. Sherlock ignores him as he puts a hand on John's shoulder, exactly where Lestrade's was, and steers him towards the pavement. He puts his other hand up to call a taxi and, like magic, one appears.

"Is that a Holmes thing?" John asks.

"Is what a Holmes thing?" Sherlock mutters. He sounds distracted and if anyone else had posed the question they probably would've been ignored. John subsides, figuring Sherlock is thinking about the case, and stares out the window. Sherlock's hand never leaves his shoulder but it's a warm, comforting weight and he doesn't mind.

Mrs Hudson isn't in, he notes, climbing the stairs slowly. It takes him a moment to remember that she and Mrs Turner were going out. He takes off his coat and is thinking about making a cup of tea when hands slam him against the nearest wall. It's only because he recognizes the long fingers curling around his shoulders that he doesn't thrust an elbow back.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" 

"I know what you were thinking," Sherlock says. His voice has gone all low and husky and his breath washes across John's ear as he speaks. John shivers and Sherlock presses closer. "Do you want me, John?"

Jesus. It's hard to believe that there was a time he thought he was straight when Sherlock can do this to him with just a few words. His head falls forward, impacting lightly against the wall. "Yes."

"It's bothered you, that I haven't initiated anything, hasn't it?" One of those hands slides around his waist, splaying out across his belly. 

There's no point in lying, not when Sherlock obviously already knows the answer. "Yes," he grits out. He can feel Sherlock's cock pressing against the small of his back and closes his eyes, swallowing hard. 

"Do you know why?"

It's just like Sherlock to ask him to think. He tries to gather his thoughts together as Sherlock skilfully undoes his button and zip, then slides a hand down into his trousers, into his pants. His cock hardens quickly and his knees feel weak. Sherlock presses against him, holding him in place against the wall.

"I'm waiting," he says.

"I - god Sherlock - I don't know," he says breathlessly. 

"Come on, John," Sherlock urges, fingers tightening, pulling slowly, the friction not nearly enough. Their close proximity to the wall prevents John from thrusting and the lack of true pressure is maddening.

Knowing that Sherlock won't do anything else until he comes up with at least a reasonable guess, John tries to focus. Sherlock had brought him off twice but hadn't allowed John to reciprocate either time, so for a while he'd thought that Sherlock wasn't interested in him. But the cock nestled against his backside proves differently. There hadn't been any interesting cases that he knows of, so that's not it, and Sherlock hasn't been in one of his moods recently, either. He gives a half-sob of frustration and tries to buck forward. 

"Please, harder," he pleads.

A soft kiss is dropped onto the back of his neck and the fingers tighten minutely, the strokes becoming a little faster.

And then he knows.

"You were waiting," he says. "You were waiting to be sure that I - oh fuck - that I wanted it."

"See? I knew you'd get there." It's a condescending remark, but since Sherlock pushes John's pants and trousers down at the same time, he lets it pass. Especially when he feels warm skin press against him from behind.

"Oh fuck," he breathes out again, squeezing his eyes shut. He reaches back a hand and grabs Sherlock's hip. 

"Not tonight, but soon," Sherlock promises. His other hand disappears momentarily and John hears an odd little sound that he can't place. Then Sherlock gently presses his legs apart and he feels a slick finger touching him, sliding around his rim, pressing inside just a little. At the same time, the pulls on his cock become firmer, the pressure exactly right, at a speed that will drive him mad.

"Fuck!" he cries. He feels like he's been halfway to orgasm for days and this is... it's just too much. Sherlock's arm around his waist keeps him standing as he comes, painting the wall with strands of seed. John is gasping, shivering with the intensity. 

"John."

The strain in Sherlock's voice makes him come back to himself. He turns around and reaches down, where Sherlock's hand is already busy. He takes Sherlock's balls in hand, rolling them around, rubbing index finger just below, along Sherlock's perineum. He looks up at Sherlock's face as the man gasps, wanting to watch Sherlock for the first time. 

"Come on," he urges. "Come on, Sherlock. I'm right here, waiting."

Those otherworldly eyes snap open and Sherlock groans, crushing John against him and taking John's mouth in a bruising kiss. John tilts his head back, surrendering to the kiss, and warm semen splatters across his belly and thighs. He breaks the kiss and gasps for breath.

"You were waiting for me," he says suddenly. How did he not figure that out before? Sherlock may do a lot of things that are a bit Not Good but there are some lines that not even he will cross. John may have surrendered to the inevitable but Sherlock still waited to be sure that it was what he wanted before he did anything else. A warm feeling runs through him and he knows that it must show on his face. He says, "Sherlock, I love you."

Slick fingers caress his cheek. "John, I..." He stops.

"It's fine," John says, and it is. Because he knows Sherlock loves him. Someday he'll hear it, but until then, just knowing is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading one of my first Sherlock stories. I hope you enjoyed it.


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